Lost son
by KingdomLei
Summary: "You're not the same person you were four years ago. What makes you think he is?" The road walked by Admiral Owen Paris, losing his son - and finding him again.
1. Regret

Admiral Paris was a no-nonsense kind of person. He did not indulge in pointless hope and idle fantasy. So when Voyager went missing, he considered the possible outcomes, and assumed the likeliest one: his son was dead.

As months went by, worried relatives of the missing crew would contact Starfleet, asking and asking again for any news or hints that their loved ones could still be brought home safe, but Admiral Paris would only shake his head with impatience. Because it was pointless. They were gone. They were not coming back. There was nothing to be gained by pretending otherwise. The one sensible thing a person could do under those circumstances was to mourn, find closure, and move on.

Admiral Paris had lived and fought through a war, and mourning was not new to him. He found, however, that mourning a comrade was different from the weight of a son's death. The truth was, he was not prepared for it. He had not considered it. It was silly, really, because Tom had always been a risk taker, even as a child, and a Starfleet commission came by no means with a guaranty of dying of old age. The possibility had always been there. Perhaps he had believed that smile too much. Tom always smiled like he was invincible.

_Had_ always smiled.

Whatever the reason, Admiral Paris had lived with that certitude, the obvious fact that his son was supposed to have a future. Looking back, every interaction with him had been motivated with thought for his future. Striving to make him work better, try harder, build a successful career and a good character. At every scolding, every lecture, whenever Tom's gaze would blank out in passive hostility, he had been thinking: "I will make a man of him. He will thank me later."

Later.

There was no "later" now. There never would be.

Even before that, Tom's life had not quite headed in the way he had wanted it to, anyway. Everything he had done, everything he had said, all of his careful plans, none of that had kept Tom safe. He had derailed from the way traced for him, so badly that it seemed he could no longer be saved.

But would it have made a difference, in the end? If his son had boarded Voyager as an officer rather than as a prisoner informant, would it have changed in any way the way Admiral Paris felt about his death?

Six months previously, he would have said yes. He would have said that it mattered, that it was better to die with pride rather than shame. But that, too, was indulging in fantasy. Rank was of little consequence on a grave. Only one thing was truly important: Tom Paris was supposed to have a future. Any future. And now he didn't.


	2. Hope

Even for someone as important as Admiral Paris, it was not customary to be awaken in the middle of the night by Starfleet command. The urgency in Commander Jery's words did not escape him, either.

"We have retrieved the Prometheus vessel from the Romulans, Admiral. We found something quite unexpected on board."

Prometheus was important news, but it was Admiral Hayes' project. It was not in itself a reason to call him at 2:00 in the morning.

"Unexpected? What do you mean?"

"A transmission. From Voyager. I am about to establish communication with Starfleet command. Would you like to join the call?"

Still half asleep, Admiral Paris stared at his communication screen and answered yes, but he had not entirely registered the information. It did not make much sense.

Then, Commander Jery's face disappeared from the screen and was replaced by a new one. Someone Admiral Paris recognized, but who could not possibly be on the Prometheus.

"Good morning to you," the bald man said pleasantly. I am the EMH of the Federation starship Voyager."

"This ship has been declared lost fourteen months ago," said the voice of Admiral Hayes. "We have been without news for years. Do you mean you have been transmitted from this vessel? How long ago? Is it intact? Where is it?"

"Voyager is intact, although its crew has suffered some casualties," the EMH replied. "Due to alien interference, it has been sent to other side of the galaxy, in the Delta quadrant. We have been trying to get home ever since."

"Is Thomas Paris still on board?" Admiral Paris asked.

It was inappropriate to ask a question of personal nature when there was an entire ship at stake, but be it the surprise or the lack of sleep, he was not thinking entirely straight. The hologram raised an eyebrow.

"Lieutenant Paris is in perfect health, and as irritating as ever, if I may add. I can give you a complete list of the crew members and their current state of health."

Interestingly, what struck Admiral Paris' mind was not his son's newly acquired rank. It was the thought that somewhere, as far away as it may be, Tom was annoying someone. Somewhere, he was wearing this smug smile of his, and making people roll their eyes at him. He could not stop himself, and laughed.


	3. Letters

Author's note:

This is probably a good time to warn that I am going to ignore the Voyager novels, for the simple reason that I did not read them. I only use the content of the series, and my own speculations.

There will be a few more chapters, until some post-endgame resolutions to the relationship between Tom and his father. Thank you for reading me.

* * *

"Letters?"

"Yes, sir. The crewmember's families have requested it. It should be possible to send them along with our planned transmission."

Admiral Paris nodded. He had not thought of it. Or rather, he had dismissed the thought over more practical ones: ways to establish a link with Voyager, ways to get them home, or to help them navigate the Delta quadrant at the very least. His one and only obsession, now that he knew they were still alive, was to get them back. But there was no known way to accomplish that at the moment, and of course, people would have much to say to their loved ones. A letter per crewman would not amount to too much data.

"Very well. Inform everyone that the deadline to deliver their letters for transmission is 8th of April, 10:00."

He dismissed the ensign and walked thoughtfully to the window. Indeed, people would have a lot to say. Four years of absence, believing their loved ones dead, or lost forever - which they perhaps were.

What about him? He played with the thought. It was an uncomfortable one. Tom and him had not parted in good terms. It was doubtful that his son was looking forward to hear from him.

* * *

"We have just received the ones for Kim, the Delaneys, and Kaplan. The federal penal settlements have transmitted several ones for the Maquis. I should be able to start compiling tomorrow morning as planned."

Admiral Paris nodded without glancing up from his PADD. He was more concerned about the encryption of the more important part of the transmission.

"Very well, Lieutenant."

"Sir..."

The Admiral glanced up, frowning. The young man did not seem to be at ease. He was fidgeting with his PADDs.

"Yes?"

"Sir, that is... Should I expect another letter?"

"Another letter?"

"For Lieutenant Paris, sir."

Admiral Paris looked sharply at the young man. Lieutenant Hartman. He was Tom's age, and probably had been at the Academy at the same time. Had they been friends? He did not know. He knew very little about his son's life - aside from his grades and his misbehavior.

"Do you believe he wants to read one?" he said dismissively.

Lieutenant Hartman fidgeted again. Tom had done that a lot too, when he was expecting to be scolded.

"Depends what it says, sir."

Not that afraid to speak up, then.

"And what do you think it should say, Lieutenant?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, probably _"I'm glad you're not dead"_, or something along those lines," the young man offered helpfully.

Admiral Paris returned to his PADDs, shaking his head slightly.

"Surely he knows that."

There was a silence. It stretched uncomfortably. Admiral Paris looked up again.

"Dismissed!"

Lieutenant Hartman jumped to attention and retreated out of the room.

* * *

It was late. The building was nearly empty and most offices had fallen into darkness. But a light was still on in one room, where Owen Paris was sitting in front of an empty PADD. He had a couple of hours left to write a letter to his son.

The last time he had seen Tom, it was on the day he was sentenced to prison.

He had avoided most of the debates, but he had come on the last day of trial to hear officially what would become of his son. At the end of the hearing, Tom had followed the guards out of the room as a prisoner. As he was walking past his father, their eyes had crossed and for a second, Tom had stopped.

Even now, Admiral Paris sometimes wondered what exactly Tom had been expecting from him at that moment. Acknowledgement? Reproach? Forgiveness? Compassion? But he could think of nothing to say. His mind was blank and the pain was too much to bear. What could he possibly have said to someone so determined to ruin his own life? To someone who looked at him as if he was staring at an enemy?

So he had simply turned his back, and walked away.

Later, after Tom had disappeared along with Voyager, he'd often replayed that scene in his head. It had been a lingering regret, that the last time he had seen his son, he had turned his back on him. But even then he had been unable to think of anything to say. It was like Tom was already out of his reach at that point, further away than any displacement wave could ever send him. That silence was still standing between them now.

But not sending a letter would be like turning his back on him a second time. He had to say something. Anything.

_"Probably "I'm glad you're not dead", or something along those lines."_

Admiral Paris stared at his empty PADD.

Well. It was as good a start as any other.


	4. Puzzle

Admiral Paris sponsored the Pathfinder project himself. His team worked hard, and results happened. Communication with Voyager slowly became a possibility. The first breakthrough was made possible by the obstinacy of Lieutenant Barclay - who broke a dozen Starfleet regulations in the process. In another life, Admiral Paris would have demoted the man for that sort of insubordination. But maybe there was something to say for stubborn, brilliant creativity, after all. It was just possible that he had developed a soft spot for people who tended to be too emotional to stick to the rules.

For a few brief moments, Admiral Paris, was able to hear the voice of Kathryn Janeway - that sturdy little redhead was still out there, and keeping her crew together. He didn't hear Tom's voice, although he knew, from Kathryn's words, that he was on the bridge with her, listening.

On that day, he spoke words long overdue, words he thought he would never have the chance to say.

His son did not reply.

Then, after months and months of work, a more regular contact was established. Once a month, letters were sent both ways, along with news and whatever tactical data was deemed useful. The data stream was limited and personal letters weren't the only information that had to be sent, so not everyone could get a place every time. A schedule was established with the families, and Owen Paris assumed Captain Janeway had a similar system organized aboard her ship. Given those circumstances, it was no wonder that no word from Tom had arrived yet. He would have to wait his turn, of course.

It would happen. In time.

Probably.

In the mean time, Admiral Paris read the ship's logs. Life on Voyager didn't seem to ever get boring. He navigated through their six years of ordeal, six years of trading, negotiating, fighting, and surviving. Six years of not giving up on home, gaining ground, and making half of their way back, a distance that should normally have taken thirty years to travel. With Tom at the helm as a senior officer. It seemed he had made a place for himself, and not a small one.

He had been in trouble too. He had been lost and rescued a number of times, accused of various infringements on alien worlds on several occasions, and in one case, had been thrown into the brig and demoted for disobeying orders - in a crusade to save a ball of water, apparently. Admiral Paris did raise an eyebrow at that, but kept on reading, thankful that he hadn't been the one who had to deal with that particular extravagance.

Tom had played quite the hero as well a couple of times, saving lives, rescuing Voyager, volunteering and running into all kinds of dangers and once even acting as a double agent to identify a traitor aboard.

From time to time, there were hints of other aspects of Tom's life. Reports of holodeck malfunctions mentioned him as a program's author. The design files of that new shuttle - the Delta Flyer - where signed by his name. A number of medical files had been modified by him as well, and Owen Paris remembered something the EMH had complained about, all those months ago on the Prometheus: that the best medic he had was an untidy playboy who once had two semesters of biochemistry.

He couldn't help but chuckle.

Bit by bit, all those lost years unravelled in front of him. It was like becoming acquainted again with a long lost friend. Tom had changed. The child Admiral Paris had attempted to raise had unexpectedly grown up while his father wasn't looking. He no longer knew him. He no longer understood him - if he ever had. He worked like an investigator, puting together pieces and clues, trying to find out more between the lines of official reports, anything that would allow him to cross the gap between him and his son.

Then, on the third month of data exchange with Voyager, a small note was addressed to him personally.

"_Hey Dad,_" it said, "_I thought you would like to know that you have a daughter-in-law, now. I'll leave it to you to have it transcribed in the official records back home. If you feel like it, drink a glass of wine for us. __I hope you're well."_

An official record of the wedding was joined, signed by Kathryn Janeway. She had added a personal note as well.

_"It was an honor to celebrate the marriage of two of the most brilliant and loyal officers serving on this ship."_

Admiral Paris looked at the messages, uncertain. Kathryn's praise was intended to reassure him - so she assumed the news might worry him, and damn, the woman was as perceptive as she used to be. Somehow the unexpected event made him feel further estranged from his son. It was so hard to picture him a married man. Yet he was, to a woman Owen Paris didn't know - might never know. He couldn't claim that he was jumping in joy at the name of the bride, either. B'elanna Torres had a file of her own. Cadet at the Academy, dropped out after a stormy two years, wanted for acts of terrorism... she would have been in prison or dead if she had stayed in the Alpha quadrant. It seemed too good a match not to worry him.

Of course, she was Janeway's chief of Engineering, and if he was going by Voyager's mission logs, she had not disappointed during her years of service. In fact, she hadn't yet visited the ship's brig, so it was possible that she was less of a troublemaker than Tom himself... Although that wasn't in itself a challenge, to be fair.

In any case, all he could do from that distance was hope for the best. He could no longer indulge in the urge to question, to control, to make repairs to his son's life as if it was a malfunctioning shuttle.

_Drink a glass of wine for us_, his son had said.

The next month's data stream included a personal message of Admiral Paris.

_"The best of luck. I will keep the champagne cool until you get back."_

It was the first time in eight years and seven months that he had exchanged words with his son.


End file.
